a magazine devoted to gay literature

07/09/2017

House

House

Mark William Lindberg

Jonas walks along the suburban street between the university and the train station. The school had hired him to teach a physical acting workshop (and how many different things could that mean, he made some choices). Now done with that and feeling pretty good, certainly fully awake and alert, he walks himself back to the train. It’s still morning. The street is empty. It skirts a little lake on one side. It would be nice, he thinks, to live in one of these houses facing the lake. One of these nice two-story houses near the university on this clean, empty street, facing the rippling lake. Maybe that one, the green and white one with the shutters and the porch. It’s possible these houses belong to the university. Very possible that faculty live in them. This green and white one is the best. Uninterrupted view, commanding presence, things Jonas would value in a house.

He has stopped walking. He can imagine waking up late, around now probably, in the front room on the second floor, opening the curtains to see how the lake is doing this morning. Looking out to see some skinny queer standing out there on the sidewalk looking back at him, some college-associated freelancer staring up at his green and white house. Stepping back from the curtains he’d turn back to the bed. There’d be a man in it, of course, a thick man who sleeps in his briefs and always flings the sheets off in the night because he overheats. Jonas would smack him on the ass as he left the bedroom. “We slept in again,” he’d say, not at all admonishing, somewhere between a celebration and a surrender. This front bedroom is a master, has a small bath off of it and a large closet. After a satisfying morning pee, Jonas would throw a bathrobe on because who wears a bathrobe? His man has reclaimed the covers, cocooned himself, turned away and returned to sleep. Jonas would chuckle at that. Down the hardwood staircase Jonas walks, down into the mostly open-plan first floor. Fireplace, kitchen island, giant TV they only use for movies. In the big silver fridge he finds yogurt. In the slick hardwood cabinet he finds bran flakes because he knows they’re good for him and has seen the benefits in recent months. Their bowls are colorful but adult. Jonas fills one with a few slops of white yogurt, then a mess of brown bran flakes. He returns the flake box and yogurt tub to the cabinet and fridge before he starts eating. As he eats, Jonas walks to the big front window to look out at the lake again. That skinny queer is still out there, exactly where he was. Jonas finds himself slightly disturbed by that. He crunches. The skinny queer is backlit by the sun reflecting off the rippling lake water, but Jonas can tell he’s staring right at him. Is something wrong? Jonas crunches more slowly. He turns from the window and goes up the stairs. They’ve turned the second bedroom, the back bedroom, into an office. Before turning that way, Jonas peeks at the bed. His man sleeps on, but he’s flung the lower half of the covers off already exposing once again his white briefs, beefy ass and hairy legs. Jonas chuckles. He turns into the office and crunches. What day is it? It’s nice that he can’t remember. He’s had a couple weeks without work, but they’ve been doing fine on their shared income. His man’s been working from home this week, so it’s felt mostly like a vacation. Jonas wakes up his laptop and smiles at the smiling faces looking back from the wallpaper. The picture is from a vacation they took. No, it would be a honeymoon picture. That was the honeymoon. Jonas sits in a beautifully designed desk chair to stare at the picture of himself and his man on their honeymoon. He doesn’t have a bowl of yogurt and bran flakes anymore. Maybe the office is on the first floor, off the kitchen. Maybe the man comes in and catches Jonas staring at the picture, makes fun of him, but in a cute way, in a sexy way. Still in his briefs. Maybe they make love on the kitchen island. And when they’re done, Jonas puts his bathrobe back on. He goes to get the newspaper! They would subscribe to a newspaper just to have to go out to the porch and get it every morning because who still does that? Jonas opens the front door in his bathrobe to get the newspaper but stops when he sees the skinny queer still out there. Still staring back. Wearing Jonas’s fraying messenger bag and dirty movement pants. He’s backlit from the lake, but Jonas can see that he’s weeping, and he knows he doesn’t know why. Jonas bends carefully to retrieve the paper, as if the skinny queer will come for him if he makes any sudden moves. Jonas makes sure to step fully inside the house and put one hand on the door before he waves. He waves to the skinny queer. He shuts the door.

Staring at the house, Jonas wipes his cheek and chuckles. It would probably be nice to live in that house.

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Mark William Lindberg is a queer author and educator living with a man and a dog in Queens, NY. His novels Queer on a Bench, Forest Station and 81 Nightmares are available on Amazon. His short fiction has been published by Glitterwolf and Chelsea Station. You can find him on various social media and at www.markwilliamlindberg.com.